


Hit Me Like A Hurricane (Love)

by alienor_woods



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-05
Updated: 2017-04-03
Packaged: 2018-07-21 15:49:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7393651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alienor_woods/pseuds/alienor_woods
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Arkadia’s actually a nice place to be in the summertime.”</p><p>“You just think that because all the undergrads are gone.”</p><p>aka:  that Grad School AU vignette series I promised to HawthorneWhisperer.  Rated T for chapters 1-5; Explicit starting at chapter 6.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HawthorneWhisperer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HawthorneWhisperer/gifts).



> Title from ["Real Love,"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S9lkxJFLZ5w) by Florrie. It's a fun, boppy, summery love song that sets the tone for this fic! 
> 
> All couples will get smut scenes, so the rating will go up when those chapters queue up.

“Arkadia’s actually a nice place to be in the summertime.”

“You just think that because all the undergrads are gone.”

“Right in one.” Bellamy lifted his beer to his lips and took a long pull, then another.  It swept down his throat and into his belly, all cold and frothy and sweetbitter on the inside while his outside simmered in the June heat.

In a word: perfect.

Water splashed past his feet. Raven’s hands swept backwards, down, and forward again through the water, propelling her raft towards the pool’s edge. “Hand me another Fat Tire.”

He caught her crushed empty and rolled a full can the few feet to where she waited, raft pulled alongside the patio edge like a moored ship. The _crackfizz_ of Raven popping the tab seemed overly loud in the relative quiet of their neighborhood. The yards on either side and behind their own sat silent and a bit unkempt, their young stewards having left for Capital-H Home over a week ago.

Speaking of those who had left… Bellamy turned his gaze back to his roommate. “Has Wick left? I haven’t seen him in a while.”

Raven scowled, an expression that would look wrong on the face of your typical girl in a bikini and in a pool on a weekday. But Raven wasn’t typical, nor had been her hush-hush relationship with the adjunct mechanical engineering professor.  Wick had been helping Raven with her dissertation _just_ enough that he tended to use the cover of darkness to slip in and out of the house, but since his name wouldn’t end up on the title page of her final submission, their sorta-dating-not-really wasn’t a _total_ breach of university regulations.

Raven dunked her hand under the water and made an aggravated wave with it. “He left for California last weekend.”

“That sucks.”

Raven frowned up at the sun, more contemplative this time around than pissed. “We knew it was coming. Gotta chase that tenure.”

 _Tenure_. Just thinking about the business of academia made Bellamy’s mood sour at the edges. Fuck that, though. It was June, sunny, and he was enjoying being pool bums with Raven. Raven – his roommate and fellow doctoral candidate who busted her ass just as hard as he did on her school work.  So he was going to push aside what Octavia called his “Grumps” and go right back to enjoying summer. In Arkadia.   _Without. Undergrads._

He took another swig of his beer. “Hope he chased you into the bedroom before he left.”

Raven laughed and splashed him with her foot. She was drifting to the other side of their little kidney pool, so she barely got his legs. “That was such a bad pun, Blake. But yes, the goodbye fucking was legendary.”

Bellamy heaved a dramatic sigh and laid a hand on his chest. “You deserve nothing less, Reyes.”


	2. Lincoln x Octavia I

Okay, so there’s at least _one_ non-locally-raised undergrad still hanging around in Arkadia for the summer: Octavia Blake.

Bellamy had been accepted into the history doctoral program at Arkadia University just about the same time that Octavia finished high school, so off went her own application packet to the undergraduate campus.  Despite showing up at orientation without not knowing anything about the school beyond the pictures on the main page and where the “Apply Now!” button was located, Octavia likes the school.  She likes it a _lot_. Her freshman year had gone better than she could have ever expected, what with crushing her classes and making friends that she couldn’t believe she missed as much as she does now that they’re out of town.

Because unlike Harper and Monroe, Monty and Jasper, Octavia doesn’t have parents to go home to.  It’s just her and Bellamy, and if he’s staying in Arkadia over the summer, she is too.

 _Well_ , Octavia thinks, kicking the dryer door closed, _Bellamy isn’t the only man in my life that lives in Arkadia full-time_. She hitches the laundry basket onto her hip and pushes through the gamut of doors between the laundry room, the hallway with the staff bathrooms, and finally back out onto the Arkadia Gymnasium main room.

Lincoln re-racks weights from his personal training session beyond the front desk, where Octavia drops the laundry basket. Now that the undergrads aren’t coming and going all day long, midafternoon is the perfect time of day to do this sort of busy work around the gym. Folding towels requires very little attention, freeing up Octavia’s eyes to admire the flex of her boyfriend’s muscles while he works.

“They’ll fall out of your head if you’re not careful,” Indra notes, slipping behind Octavia to the computer. “Your eyes, I mean.”

Octavia arches an eyebrow. “Should I be looking at someone else?”

The gym’s owner laughs.  It’s a low baritone that sends a burst of pride through Octavia’s chest whenever she’s the one to cause it.  “I guess not.” Indra switches to the administrator account and begins culling spam emails. “Have you confirmed Anya’s kickboxing class schedule?”

“Yes.”  Octavia arranges the folded towels along the front edge of the desk.  “Tuesdays and Thursdays at 6 PM.  Echo called to move her Saturday Yin Yoga class back half an hour, to 1:30.  I told her that you would email her later this weekend.  I left a note in your outlook tasks.”

Indra nods once.  “Good. Go help Lincoln with those mats before the baby gymnasts get here.”

“They’re six and seven years old, Indra, they’re hardly babies.”  Indra continues to work at the computer as though she hadn’t heard Octavia.  Only the slightest curve of her mouth belying the truth.

Octavia forces herself not to skip to Lincoln’s side. He winks at her in the mirror. “What’s up with you?”

She grabs the far side of the blue mat he’s dragged off the top of Big Blue and hoists it to her waist with a grin.  “Indra likes me. I don’t care how much you don’t believe it.”

Lincoln rolls his eyes. Together, they side-step the bulky mat to the open floor on the far side of the gym and drop it. He nudges it to line up with the seam in the floor. On their way back to Big Blue–their pet name for the big stack of mats–he tugs the end of her swinging ponytail. “She’s just going to give you more hours. Loading up responsibility is how Indra shows her affection.”

“Good. I could use the money.”

They grab the next mat. “Won’t that interfere with your class?”

“What class?”

They line up the mat and drop it into place. Lincoln’s brow furrows in confusion. “Your summer class. Microeconomics?”

Octavia’s own expression clears, and she turns back to Big Blue with a flick of her wrist. “Oh, _that_. No, I decided not to do summer classes.”

He falls into step with her by the assisted pull-up machine. “I thought that you said it was a good idea.”

Something dark and bitter slithers up the back of Octavia’s neck. “No, not really. _You_ told me you thought it was a good idea, and I said that it would be nice if it were possible, but it’s not.”

Mat number three. They don’t have handles, and Octavia’s hands are starting to ache a bit. She’s going to need to work on her grip strength tomorrow.

“You can make it work–”

“My scholarships don’t cover summer classes, Lincoln,” Octavia snaps. “They don’t pay for my dorm room or my summer meal plan. Plus, I’m taking eighteen hours next semester. I won’t be able to work here as much as I have this past year. So, I need to work as much as I can this summer so I have some savings for”–slap goes the mat–”groceries and other shit to like, live on.”

“I’m sorry.” Lincoln moves around the mats to grab one of the short balance beams.  He’s avoiding her eyes. “I didn’t think–”

Octavia shakes her head, whips her ponytail through the air. “You _did_ think, Lincoln. You thought you knew what was best for me and thought I should go along with _your_ better judgment.”

When he rises up from settling the beam’s legs into place, he looks chastened and apologetic, and her heart sinks. She exhales, drops her shoulders from where they’ve been hitching higher and higher around her neck, and opens her mouth to apologize for snapping.

But then the door opens and in whirls a shrieking, bedazzled six year old, and then another, and another. The gymnastics instructor is close behind, calling out directions, and Lincoln leaves Octavia to intercept the kid running for the free weights.

She would have to wait.


	3. Raven x Roan I

Raven and Octavia are already at least one sheet to the wind when Bellamy arrives at Ice Nation, the bar at which the grad students escape the undergrads.  The two women sit at the counter with a handful of empty shotglasses between them, toasting each other with fresh shots.  It’s tequila, because Raven feels like it’s a tequila kind of day.

Raven nods to Octavia, and they toss it back.  Octavia coughs and shakes her head, then waves at her brother.  “Bell!”

He kisses Octavia’s head and pats Raven’s back, signals at the bartender for a whisky. “I thought you and Lincoln had made up,” Bellamy says, brow arched at the empty glasses.

“We did,” Octavia says, the tequila making her bubbly.  When the bartender slides Bellamy his whisky, Raven discreetly asks for him for two waters.  He glances at Octavia, her hands waving as she talks, and winks one of his bright blue eyes at her.  In his sort of weird, sharp face, it looks even more rogue-ish and sly than he probably meant it to be.

Or hell, maybe he did mean it that way.

Meanwhile, Bellamy seems pleased that Octavia is simply enjoying her fake ID privileges rather than angsting over Lincoln.  “It’d be awkward for me to play ball with with him if two aren’t talking to each other,” he says.

“Yeah, I wouldn’t want to hold your bromance back.” A smile curves one side of Octavia’s mouth.

Bellamy snickers and sips his drink. “You wouldn’t have held it back, it would have just been an awkward elephant in the room for a few minutes.”  

Octavia’s nudge turns into a punch to his shoulder.  Raven rolls her eyes. _Siblings_.

“So, Lincoln’s new roomie is moving in soon?” Raven asks.

“Yep, weekend after next.  One of his uncle’s coworker’s kids.  Carl?  Colin?  No – Clarke, that’s it.”  O is so proud of herself for remembering Clarke’s name that she orders drinks for all of them.

The talk turns to Octavia’s work, and Raven’s thesis, which leads Raven to order a full-on margarita, and Bellamy’s student essays, which requires another whisky, _a double this time, Roan._

Octavia clicks around on Instagram.  “I don’t know if I want to go back to school full time in the fall.  Indra has started asking what my hours are going to be like and–i dunno I just love working with her.”

Raven shakes her head just as Bellamy reaches out and pets O’s hair. “No, no, O, you gotta stay in school,” Bellamy says, his eyes only a little bit glossy.

“Fuck Indra,” Raven says, her eyes feeling much more glossy.   _Octavia’s braids are really fucking nice today, too_.  “Listen to us. School is important.  You learn things and … you need to get your degree.  Degrees are super important.”

Octavia huffs. “But the money is so good!”

“You gotta be full time to keep your scholarships,” Bellamy reminds her.  “Are you going to make enough money to cover your tuition and your expenses?”

“Please don’t ask me math questions when I’ve had this much tequila.” Octavia counts the shot glasses. “Eight shots, Bell! That’s too much for math.”

Roan’s been wiping down the counter near them.  He laughs “Eight between the two of you, babe.  You’ve only had four.”

“You,” Octavia growls, pointing at him, “are making me a much less con….convincing arguer.”

He raises his hands in surrender. “Sorry, sorry.”

Raven points at him, too, but talks to the side of Octavia’s face. “Listen, listen, listen. Stay in school. Get your degrees. Or you’ll end up 30 and serving overpriced drinks to students for minimum wage and tips, like this guy.”

Roan laughs again. He reaches out and clears away their empties. “I actually have an MBA.  I own this bar.”

_Well. Fuck._


	4. Bellamy x Clarke I

Clarke meets Bellamy Blake under the worst circumstances possible.  She's sipping on a glass of water in the kitchen, blinking the sleep from her eyes, hair a rat's nest atop her head, last-night's mascara ringing her eyes, when in he bursts through the back door--shirtless, sweating, and flicking his hair from his eyes with a laugh at something Lincoln's shouted at him.

"Hey," he says, breathless.  He and Lincoln have been scrimmaging basketball out back; the pound of the ball on the pavement and their jibes at each other had woken her up.  She can't be peeved, since it  _is_ three in the afternoon, and she  _did_ voluntarily take on night shifts.

Clarke swallows her mouthful of water. "Hey."  Her voice is still rough from sleep, because God and all of his angels hate her.

"Clarke, right?"  He snags two gatorades from the fridge. "Bellamy.  I'm Octavia's brother."

"Nice to meet you."  He's pointedly keeping his eyes trained in on her face and Clarke remembers she's not wearing pants, just a big tee of her dad's and some boyshorts hidden underneath the hem.  "Sorry," she gestures at her slovenly appearance, "I'm on night shifts at the ER. Kinda messes with my schedule."

But he's already heading out the backdoor, where Lincoln is doing layups in the driveway. "No worries.  We'll try to not hurt ourselves out here."

 _Ha ha, nurse joke, get it?_ her brain sing songs. But _fuck he is so fucking hot_ she can't even be annoyed at him.

The next time he's around, it's better. She's a) fully clothed and b) showered when he comes over to hang out with Octavia and Lincoln.  They four of them sit out on the porch and drink a few beers, chatter away about how Octavia wants a dog and how Lincoln and Bellamy would end up taking care of it for her.

"I'm responsible," Octavia insists, but she's laughing anyway.

"You're a full-time student," Lincoln retorts. 

Clarke pulls a foot up under her on the patio chair. "Midterms, though? That poor puppy, alone at home while you're studying in the library."  Bellamy points at Clarke in agreement, tipping his head back to finish his beer.

"Whose puppy is at home alone?" A dark-haired woman asks as she breezes out of the house, frosty beer in hand.

"Octavia's hypothetical rescue dog," Bellamy replies.  He gestures to an empty seat, but Raven has seen Clarke and sighs.

"I should have known I would see you again somewhere," Raven grouses. But she's rolling her eyes, and her voice lacks too harsh of an edge, so Clarke's stomach climbs back from where it had dropped when she'd recognized Raven.

Octavia casts a wary gaze in Clarke's direction.  A gaze that says, _you're the new one here_. _You're the one that needs to prove herself._   "You two know each other?"

Clarke picks at the label of her beer. "Back in college--" she starts, at the same time that Raven says, "My ex Finn cheated on me with her."

Across the patio table, Bellamy pulls a face. "Damn."  

"I didn't know!  And Raven knows that I dumped him right when I found out."

Raven flicked her wrist. "It was years ago, and it's really Finn who should have known better, obviously."

"If it makes you feel a bit better," Clarke says to Raven, "I dated a woman after him?"

Raven tips her head back and laughs, long and loud.  The others visibly relax, so Clarke does too.  

And just like that, Clarke and Raven are friends.  It's even Raven who invites Clarke to come with the group out to John Murphy's house for his July 4th BBQ-slash-rager a week later. It's Raven who shows her where they can hide their purses from Murphy's juvie friends and where Murphy keeps his stash of back-up alcohol.

Out on the lawn, Octavia and Lincoln play each other in an absurdly competitive and alcoholic version of cornhole.  Octavia's friends Jasper, Harper, and Monty are in town; Monty presses something clear and sharp into her hands as he passes by on his way to watch the cornhole matchup.  "It's not vodka," he promises with a wink.  Clarke takes a sip and _fuck no it's not vodka._

_Dear god let her not need to jerry-rig a stomach pump for anyone tonight._

As Clarke watches Nathan do a backflip off of the diving board, Bellamy appears at her side. "I lost my partner for beer pong," he says, his voice clipped and tipsily anxious.  "Help me out?"

He actually has his hands pressed together in front of his heart.  Clarke laughs nods. "Sure, why not."

They're playing Jasper and a girl named Maya, so Clarke assumes that she and Bellamy, the Certified Adults, have the game on lock...until Jasper nails two shots in a row.

 _Alrighty then._  Clarke takes another sip of Monty's moonshine and squares her hips. Bellamy mutters encouragement behind her, but she doesn't need it. She sinks the ball into Jasper and Mya's pyramid twice as well.

Bellamy grasps her shoulders, gives her a little shake. "Hell yes, Clarke, good job!"

His hands are warm and big.  She shrugs them off.  "You get good aim in the ER."

Jasper rimshots and misses the next time, Maya bounces the ball into an edge cup. Bellamy gets one, Clarke aims for one of the base cups and misses.  They're all evenly matched and it's a quick, high energy game.  Bellamy, Clarke has noticed, and long before tonight, is a toucher.  He hugs her when he sees her at the house, taps her knee whenever he leaves the couch, has walked so closely beside her through the grocery store that their shoulders touch.

It's no different now -- his fingertips dance along her lower back as she lines up a shot, flutter on her shoulder while they watch an opponent's ball arc through the air.  And when its all done and Jasper and Maya win (by a single cup), they head to the makeshift bar with Bellamy's arm companionably slung across her shoulders.  It's a solid weight, and _god_ it feels so good tucked in right beside him.

"Clarke," he murmurs, later, when night has well and truly fallen and Monty and Jasper are setting off the miniature fireworks show they've hauled into town with them. "Do you wanna get out of here?"

She turns her head to look at him, the two of them laid out on their backs, side by side.  His eyes are glassy but earnest (she'd made him drink a water a bit ago), and the darkness of them burst blue and red reflections of Monty and Jasper's work. Clarke looks back at the show itself. "I kind of have this new rule," she says, keeping her voice light while she talks to the sky.  "A six month rule.  Like, not see anyone else until it's been six months from my last break up."

He hums, plucks at the grass they're reclined on. She and Lexa have only been broken up for just under two months, and he knows that.  "Rebounding isn't your thing, huh?"

She laughs, once.  It's bitter cold in the humid air.  "It _is_ my thing.  Hence the rule."

"I see.  Not a bad rule to have then." He says this with a gentle smile in her direction, slipping his hand into hers and squeezing it to reassure her, but the smile she gives back to him feels fake.

And when they uber home and Bellamy says goodnight not with his usual hug, but by just clapping her on the arm, Clarke closes her door, throws herself facedown on her bed, and mutters to herself that she is _such_ a fucking idiot.

 


	5. Raven x Roan II

“I took you for a straight-black kind of girl.”

 

The drawl sends Raven’s heart into her throat. _Fuck._  She finishes stirring her creamer into her Starbucks coffee as she replies, “Sorry to disappoint you, Roan.”  Inside, though, she’s cursing her luck.  First the grocery store, then the gym, and even the _dog park_ of all fucking places.  She’d only been dogsitting for Niylah for two days and still managed to take Grounder to the same dog park on the same day at the same time that Roan was there with his husky, Ice.  Bellamy thinks it’s the most hysterical thing ever and told Raven that she’s living in a rom-com.  Raven whacked him full in the face with a pillow for that.

 

Roan sets his own paper cup down on the sideboard and reaches for the heavy cream. “Not disappointed, just surprised.”  And yep, there’s that smirk tucked into his cheek, which she can see even when he’s looking down because he’s pulled all that hair back into a bun.

 

She stops herself from staring at his face and clears her throat, snaps her top back onto her thermos.  The worst part about running into him is that it reminds her of her _stupid_ comment she made that night at his -- _his!_ \-- bar.   _Get your degrees. Or you’ll end up 30 and serving overpriced drinks to students for minimum wage and tips, like this guy._ Yep, here it comes, the urge to sink into the floor and disappear forever.

 

“Later,” she says, going for a breezy tone, but his laugh in response is the final straw and yep, there go her cheeks, turning pink and hot.

 

“Raven,” he says.  She can still hear the tail end of his laugh in his voice.  “Are you just gonna turn tail every time you see me, now?”

 

She takes a sip of her coffee to think for a beat. “Until I stop being embarrassed, I guess.”

 

He rolls his eyes. “It wasn’t that bad.”  He ditches his stirring stick with a flick of his wrist and fits a top onto his cup. “Of all the things that have been said to me during a shift, it actually was pretty mild.”  Roan says this while walking past Raven to the door, holds it open for her without comment.  

 

(It’s actually nice and keeps Raven from feeling the extra vulnerability of having a cane and a coffee but only two hands and needing a third to push the door open.  She knows one day the shame of being disabled will disappear, but she hasn’t even hit the first anniversary of her wreck, so the awkwardness lingers still.)

 

Roan fiddles for his keys. “Girls ask about my dick, guys want to punch me because their girls are asking about my dick.  You thinking I make minimum wage?  Kind of cute, actually.”  

 

“It was an educated guess,” Raven retorts, a weak defense made weaker by the dry sarcasm that creeps into her voice whenever she realizes a guy is flirting with her.

 

“I have no doubt that it was.”  He pushes a button on his keyfob; the lights on a nearby Subaru blink back at him. “So stop acting like a hole opened in the ground and swallowed my bar, alright?”

 

“If you want to flirt with me, telling me how to act isn’t a good start.”

 

Now the look he gives her is darker, hotter.  “I want you to come back.”

 

“Better,” she says, arching her brow playfully.

 

“I want you to come back so I can kiss you in the bar I built myself.”

  
And the asshole salutes her with his coffee, turns on his heel, and _leaves her there_ staring after him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah so I thought I knew how many chapters this was going to be (two vignette-ish chapters per couple) but now I'm realizing there's more material than just two vignettes per couple. BUT I still want to keep that vignette feel, so I need to re-calculate and rearrange the material to achieve that tone.


	6. Lincoln x Octavia II

Octavia makes Lincoln come to her dorm room to Netflix and chill.  “What’s wrong with my place?” he asks, settling onto her futon with a beer.  He’s brought her one, too, snuck in at the bottom of his backpack.  “I thought you liked my couch.”

 

Octavia scrolls through their options.  “I like your couch just fine.  I don’t like the idea of my brother walking in when I’m half-naked in your lap because he hasn’t seen Clarke in six hours.”

 

“She let him explain his thesis topic to her the other day.”  Lincoln picks out a slice of pizza.  “Oh--We haven’t watched Blue Planet in a while.”

 

“You just like that there isn’t a plot to follow.”  She raises a brow in challenge, but he doesn’t deny it.  He just shoots her a hot look over the crust of his pizza.  She picks Coral Reefs.  “And you’re lying. I don’t even know what Bellamy’s thesis is about.”

 

“I’m serious.  They had a two-way conversation about Roman mythology and politics.  Something about emperors being gods?  I don’t know.  I was doing laundry.  But they were both talking.”

 

Octavia leans back on the couch, drops a kiss on Lincoln’s shoulder.  “They’re such nerds.”

 

“Don’t you want to get your doctorate in psychology, babe?”

 

David Attenborough’s voice comes through the speakers of Octavia’s little television, enthusiastically talking about the biodiversity of reef systems.  “Yeah, but I’m still an undergraduate.  I don’t get full nerd cred until I’m at least a senior.”

 

Lincoln laughs.  “Noted.”

 

The eat while the little polyps float towards the tropical waters, and then Octavia settles into his side while the little shrimps defend their home from the interloping sea catepillar.  By the time that the reef fish form territorial shoals, Octavia’s hand starts to make creeping circles on his stomach through his tee.  Her fingers flirt with the hem, then slip under to trace the waistband of his sweatpants.  He knows what’s coming.  Shy has never described Octavia, and that applies to sex, too.  Lincoln tightens his arm around her shoulders and presses a kiss to her cheekbone.  Her hand, bold, dips under the elastic and cotton to grab his half-hard dick.

 

“Aren’t we supposed to wait until the credits?” Lincoln whispers into her mouth.  She grins and flickers her tongue against his lips.

 

“It’s called Netflix  _ and _ chill.  Not Netflix  _ then _ chill.”

 

“Ah, my bad.”  He tugs her upright and tucks a hand up her shirt until he feels her tight nipple nudge his palm.  She arches into it, urging him on.  

 

Octavia is pushy, too, in that sweet, sexy way that he wants to give into every time.  She’s a hurricane of sensuality:  swaying against him, licking into him, urging him harder and stiffer so she can slide onto his dick.  But she’s so eager to get him off, to revel in his undoing, that she forgets to think about herself.  Lincoln has to push her away once she’s got his shirt off and his dick out in the open, weeping under her sweet hand.

 

She’s disappointed, as usual, mouth curling down and wanting to take him over the edge and be the one that gets him there.  “C’mere, O,” he murmurs, nudging and arranging until she shucks her running shorts and sits on his knee.  He tugs her thighs open as she wraps an arm around his neck.  He noses at her jaw and presses his fingertips to where she’s damp.  “You’re barely warmed up, honey.”

 

So he gets her there.  He gets her shirt up over her breasts so he can suck at them and works his fingers over his beautiful, sweet, aggressive girl until she’s squirming and twitching and grasping at his shirt, until his fingers slide slick and quick over her clit, around her labia, and inside where she’s warm and sopping wet.

 

Only then does he scoot back and let her straddle his hips, his pants shoved to his knees.  “Shit, O,” Lincoln sighs when Octavia swirls her hips, his dick deep inside her. She’s wicked beautiful sweet, leaning against him so he can feel her breasts and belly against his skin.  She presses soft kisses to his neck, drifts her fingers down his shoulders until he wraps his arms around her back and mouths at her throat.  “Oh, hon, you feel so good.”  

 

David Attenborough murmurs in the background about reef sharks; Lincoln barely hears him over O’s stuttered sighs and his own pounding heart.  Octavia fucking knows how to get him  _ going _ \-- syrup-slow rolls of her hips, chaste kisses, butterfly-soft touches on his skin -- and he wants her closer, closer, closer, sharing air and skin and sweat.  He runs his hands down her back, palms her ass, pulls at it, trying to get his dick deeper in her cunt (it’s not possible, but god he’ll try), kneads her thighs, pets her hair.

 

She waits until he’s trying to fuck up into her with whines down low in his throat.  “You ready, baby?”  she whispers.  He nods, mouth desperate dry, hands groping at her pretty breasts, and takes her tongue against his when she smiles against his lips, so fucking sure of herself.

 

Putting space between them for leverage, Octavia covers one of his hands on her tits with her own and braces the other on the back of her futon.  Lincoln watches her from under heavy lids, his balls drawn so high he feels them in his throat, and takes a bracing breath.  Octavia whips her hips forward and he groans. “Like that?” she asks, doing it again and again anyway, knowing that’s exactly what he needs.  He just presses through the heels of his feet and tries to breathe through the tension that knots at the base of his dick, wound tighter and tighter as she fucks him hard and fast.  She’s merciless, never faltering, leaning in to nip at his earlobe, laughing against his cheek when he moans.  And just like she planned, he’s coming, dick pulsing into the condom, his hand clamping tight on her hip so he can buck into her, make her tits bounce for that last visual before his vision blurs out.

 

He takes deep breaths, twitches a bit when he feels her fingers bump the base of his dick.  He blinks, blinks again, and then he can focus.  He sees Octavia’s fingers rubbing over her clit and he gives her breast a stroke where he’s still clamped onto it.  “You gonna come?” he asks, dragging his eyes from her cunt to her face.  It’s all scrunched and yeah, she’s closer than usual.  She’s a tough nut to crack when they fuck, so rarely able to turn her mind off, so unwilling to ignore Lincoln and just focus on her own pleasure.  “That’s so good, honey.”

 

“Lincoln,” she whines, head rolling back.  He crunches up and kisses her soft mouth, licking into her filthy like she likes. She moans and then catches her lip to keep quiet.

 

“Hey, no, sweet girl,” he murmurs.  He kisses her chin and tugs on her nipple so she bucks her hips.  “There’s no one else on the floor, remember?  You sound so pretty, O.”

 

Her eyes blink open, distant, and she licks her lips where they’ve gone dry. “Fuck, I think I can,” she breathes.  Her fingers grind fast and hard against her clit, picking up speed.

 

“Yeah, you’re gonna come, I can feel it,” he whispers back.  He slides both his hands into her hair, fisting it to keep from distracting her with his own touches.  “You're getting tight, babe.  You feel my dick still in you?”  She groans and rocks her hips, clamps her cunt around him.  “Yeah, there it is, honey.  You’re so beautiful, O, you pretty thing.  Get yourself off, lemme see your sweet tits go all pink--”

 

Octavia whines, cuffs at her clit the way she has Lincoln do sometimes when she thinks he can get her to come, and brings up her free hand to tug on her nipples, one and the other and back again.  She gets sloppy and desperate, her working arm starting to quiver, her head tilted down against the pull of Lincoln’s hands.  His grip on her hair is the only thing keeping her from slumping into a ball, so he leans in and kisses her again, flexes his hips to give her a bit of friction.  She comes with an arch backwards, a long moan spilling into his mouth, her knees trying to pull up and into her shuddering body.

 

He pulls at her so she collapses onto his chest instead of back onto her coffee table.  “That was good, babe, so good.” he says into her hair.  She shivers.  He wraps his arms around her and rubs her back, brisk and firm.  “God, I love you so much.”

 

Her voice is wrecked, still quivery with oxytocin.  “Love you, too, Lincoln.”  She burrows her face into his neck and huffs deep breaths into his skin.  

 

After they clean themselves up, she steals his hoodie he’d worn after his shower at the gym.  “It smells like you,” she tells him, and he smacks an affectionate kiss to her cheek.

 

He lifts the top of the pizza box.  “Seconds?”

 

“We’ve worked up an appetite, I guess.”  She gives him a sideways glance as she goes back to the menu.  “Tidal seas?”

 

“Let’s do it.”


	7. Raven x Roan II

When Raven walks into Ice Nation, she has to fight from rolling her eyes.  Not at Lincoln and Octavia, who are playing darts as foreplay, or at Murphy’s fingers tucked into the back pocket of Emori’s cutoffs, but at Bellamy and Clarke.  For a twosome so hellbent on  _ not _ banging, they certainly look like they want to bang each other.  A lot.  Clarke is all turned in towards Bellamy, down to leaning her elbow on the bar, and Bellamy’s resting a forearm across the back of her stool.  He probably thinks that he’s cool because he’s not touching  _ her _ , but...c’mon.

 

Raven lets her cane clatter against the bar, making them jump.  “What’re we talking about?”

 

“The E.R.”  Bellamy takes a swig of his beer.  “Clarke had a triple car accident last night.  One of them had to take their leg off from the knee--”

 

“And then Bellamy was telling me about Greek medicine and how modern amputations are really just slightly more refined than thousands of years ago.”

 

Raven wonders if whether the two of them can get around the no-fucking thing by fucking on a stack of textbooks and calling it a study session.  She catches Roan’s eye.  “Blue Moon.”

 

“What have you been up to?”  Clarke leans back in her stool.  Bellamy doesn’t move his arm.  

 

Roan even gives her a chilled glass with her bottle.  The beer is crisp and light, perfect to chase away the mugginess of the evening she’d walked out of.  “I started looking over the syllabi for Sinclair’s 300-level courses.  He wants me to TA the both of them, since I did alright with the 100 levels last year.”

 

“300s?”  Bellamy asks, eyebrows rising.  “That’s a pretty big jump, Rave.  Good job.”  He raises his drink to hers and they clink the rims together.

 

Clarke grins too.  “So hurry up and finish your drink so I can buy you another one.”

 

They chat at the bar for a while, watching Lincoln and Octavia play darts.  Octavia’s been getting better, to Lincoln’s pride and annoyance.  He’s still winning, but by narrower and narrower a margin these days.  Roan and Ontari move up and down the bar, starting tabs, collecting tips, cleaning up spills.  He catches Raven’s eye a few times but doesn’t do anything other than replace her drink and wink at her when their fingertips brush.  Her stomach flutters and she has to shift in her seat, particularly when he turns his head to answer Ontari and she gets an up-close profile shot of his nose and cheekbones and manbun.

 

A little while later, Raven ducks into the ladies room to see a man about a horse, and nearly runs right into Roan on her way back out.  “Oh, shit, sorry,” she says, when she hears the glasses in his bussing tray clatter today.

 

He just chuckles and sets the tray on top of a table outside the kitchen.  Then Raven feels the press of his free hands on her waist and the wall against her back.  She has just a moment to inhale, her heart in her throat, and then he’s kissing her.  It’s sure and deep, his tongue in her mouth the first chance he gets and once she catches up, her fingers clutch at his shoulders and his neck.  His teeth flash against her lip before he huffs through his nose and pulls back, eyes icy grey under heavy lids.

 

Raven licks her lips. “You’re a shit businessman,” she teases, and then gasps when he pinches her side.

 

“My bank account disagrees.” He kisses her again.  “Stay when I close up.”

 

“I’ll think about it,” she replies, brow arched.  Roan leans in one last time, but she turns her head and gives him her cheek.  

 

Even when she’s back at the bar with the rest of the group, she can still feel the press of his smirk on her skin.

 

“Raven.”  Clarke passes her a napkin. “Your lipstick is smeared.”

 

* * *

 

No one really pushes her at midnight, when she stays in her seat and says she’s going to stay a bit longer.  After all, the hallway to the bathrooms and kitchen is pretty short and well-lit.  Ontari just looks her up and down as she leaves out the back door.

 

Roan opens the cash drawer for the register. “You have to take an honor code pledge for your Masters, right?”

 

“Yep.”

 

“Good.  You can count out the drawer while move some shit around.”  He plunks the cash tray in front of her, a blue bank bag, and a notepad, laughing at the scowl on her face.  “You wanna get out of here sooner or later, Reyes?”

 

While Raven counts out crumpled bills and old coins, Roan turns off his window signs and lowers the blinds.  She adds everything up and shuffles it into the bank bag, then zips the bag closed.  He asks about her thesis and she describes the function of pistons and the basics of steam power while she dumps and rinses the drink mats behind the counter and he turns chairs onto tables and re-racks the pool table.

 

“...gravity is a force, even if you can’t feel it,” she says, wiping down the bar with a spray bottle and a rag.  “The idea is to generate enough energy to not only overcome that force but also account for the friction of the atmosphere--the gas molecules that a rocket has to pass through.  It doesn’t sound like much but it can be the difference between reaching a stable orbit or falling back into the gravitational field and crashing back to Earth.”

 

She’s reached the end of the counter when she hears--feels--him come up behind her.  His hands grip the bar on either side of her, his face burrows into her neck.  A thrill runs down her spine and sets up house in her belly.  “You’re good at that,” he murmurs, nodding his chin at his shiny clean bartop. “Efficient.”

 

“I spend a lot of time buffing metal.”  They both laugh at the double entendre and Raven leaves the rag on the counter to turn in the cage of his arms.  He blinks down his nose at her and waits for her to kiss him this time.  She tries to keep it slow, steady, and succeeds for just long enough that she can feel proud that this isn’t some fever-dream hookup.  But she wants him, and each second that she has her arms tight around his shoulders and his mouth against hers just drives that home.  When he tilts his head to mouth at her jaw, she gasps and shudders, and he grunts, too, finally lets go of the bar and wraps his arms around her waist.  His stomach is firm against hers, and god she wants to see it.

 

Roan laughs into her throat, and Raven realizes she’s been talking out loud. She laughs too, and then moans when he brazenly palms her ass and rocks her forward into his erection. “I’ve been half-hard since you got here,” he confesses, voice smooth and smoky like the scotch he slipped her, on the house.  She curls her fingers into the nape of his neck and rolls her hips while she kisses him again.  He hisses against her mouth. “Fuck, c’mere, babe.”

 

He grabs her thighs and half-walks, half-carries her a few feet to set her onto a bar stool, and then whips his shirt off.  Bits of his hair come free from his bun, but she’s too focused on his body.  “Christ, Roan,” she mutters, and pulls him closer to lap at his sternum, trace her fingers over the divots of his obliques.  

 

Everything is a flurry of cloth and hands.  He catches her nipple between his fingers, then between his teeth, so he can unfasten her brace and jerk her pants open.  She’s already got her hand stroking his dick through his open fly and grumbles when she has to pull away to lift her hips off the stool.  Once she’s naked, Roan cups the back of her neck, the runs the flat of his palm down her chest, her belly, around to her bad hip, where his nail traces one of her scars.  “God you’re beautiful.”

 

“Careful,” she says.  “You’ll give me a big head.”

 

His eyes twinkle.  He kisses her again, open-mouthed and deep, one of his fingers dropping to ghost along the slickness between her thighs.  “I’mma give you one kind of head, at least.”

 

She sighs his name and he grins at her, wolfish, before licking his way to her tits, then to her belly.  “Is this sanitary?” she gasps, two of his fingers sliding into her.  He drops to his knees and shoulders her thigh.

 

“I’ll clean it later.”  

 

He’s not shy about his tongue, lets it flick on either side of his fingers to get at her labia, seems to relish in the sloppiness of keeping his mouth open to lash her clit.  Raven dives her fingers under the base of his bun to grip at the roots of his hair.  She’s not shy either, rolls her cunt up into his face and tells him how she wants him to give it her her, holds his head in the place she wants his mouth.  When she breaks down into a string of curses, she feels him laugh into her, and she jerks on his hair in rebuke.  He just laughs again and rises up on his knees a bit to pin her hips onto the stool and go after her clit with ruthless purpose until she comes so hard the arc of her spine nearly sends her tumbling off the stool.

 

He kisses his way back to her mouth, pausing at her nipples to lap them back into peaks, and she holds him to her face with shivery hands.  “There’s a condom in my jeans,” she whispers.

 

Roan nips her bottom lip.  “You want me to fuck you?”

 

She lets her nails drag down his chest and catch in his navel.  His dick brushes the heel of her palm.  “Yeah, I want you to fuck me.”

 

“I’m gonna fuck you later, too, you know.” Roan cups a breast and squeezes.  “I’m gonna take you home and bend you over my bed.  I’ve had dreams about your goddamn ponytail.”

 

Raven mouths at his chin, rough with stubble.  “You gonna pull it?”

 

His dick is dripping precome now.  She runs a single finger up the length of him and runs the pad of her finger along the edge of the head.  “I want to, Raven.  So fucking bad.  God, you’d look so good.”

 

“Before or after I suck your dick?”

 

He curses and pulls away to bat at her jeans.  “You’re unreal, Rave.”  He kicks his own pants off and gets the latex rolled on, her bad knee hooked over his forearm to open her up.  They’re  _ naked _ in the middle of bar, fucking on a barstool, but all Raven wants right now is the image of his hand around the base of his cock, guiding the head of it into her.  “Fuck,” he sighs, barely heard over Raven’s moan and the slap of her hand on the bar she’s leaning against.   His fist bumps her, then pulls away so he can bottom out, swiveling to press the bend of his knuckles into her clit.  “Oh, babe, this is good.” 

 

“Yeah?”  she whines, full of the stretch and press of him.  He rolls his hips, rocks the stool, presses his palm to her belly.  She grabs at his wrist.  “Yeah, Roan, this is good, so good.”

 

His eyes rake over her as they fuck: the bounce of her breasts, the heave of her chest, the sweat on her forehead.  He tells her all this, with more profanity and praise built in, his voice getting tighter and strained once she remembers she still has some range of motion in that hip and presses against his elbow to fuck herself down onto his cock just as much as he’s fucking her.  When he’s close, he pulls her face to his so he can kiss her, messy and her all crunched up, hitching breaths into her mouth and groaning shuddering pressing his dick deep when he comes.

 

Only their bodies’ counterbalance and the lean of the back of the stool into the bar keeps them upright for a few more minutes while Roan takes deep breaths into Raven’s cheek and gets his legs back up under him.  Carefully, he rocks the stool back down and gets her back onto it, properly, and then pulls out with a chaste kiss to her mouth.  He stays close though, brushing her loosened hairs back into place and running a thumb along her collarbone.

 

“Looks like you wiped down the counter too early,” he rumbles, voice thick.  He jerks his chin at the bartop when she furrows her brow, and she turns her head to see a clear handprint on the dark wood, halo-ed with a bit of steam.

 

She laughs and he finally backs away from her and collects her undergarments from where he threw them for her, and walks around the bar to pull off the condom.  “Alright, Rose Dawson,” he drawls, turning on the bar sink to wash his hands.  “Let’s get you out of here so I can paint you like one of my french girls.”

  
“And you’d better treat me well, or I’ll handcuff you to a pole in my workshop.”  Raven pauses, arm halfway through her shirtsleeve.  “Well.  Treat me well  _ and _ I’ll handcuff you to a pole in my workshop.”


	8. Chapter 8

Clarke’s just cracked open a third Fat Tire when the front door slams.  “Hello?” she calls out from the kitchen, listening to the sound of bags hitting couch cushions. She’s been alone at Raven’s and Bellamy’s for hours, sunbathing by their pool with a joint and a book.

 

“Clarke?” Bellamy calls back.  “That you?”

 

Oh god she has _nothing_ on.  “Yeah,” she says, just as he rounds the corner into the small kitchen.  He stops in the doorway, his mouth open to say something but stuck there as his eyes drop to her tits, then her oiled stomach, her bare thighs.  She curls her toes into the cold tile, acutely aware of the bead of sweat slipping down her neck.  “Uh, hey.  You look nice.”

 

He does, really.  He always looks nice.  But today he’s in a suit, belt and tie and all.  His shoulders look even better than normal, what with the jacket and the tie cinching the collar around his neck.  Bellamy finally tears his eyes from where the sweat droplet had perched on her clavicle to look down and brush his hand over the front of his shirt.  Even with the belt, his pants sit fashionably low on his hips.  If Clarke slipped her fingers under his waistband, behind his belt buckle, her knuckles would probably brush against his—

 

She clears her throat and shifts her hips.  Bellamy licks his lips.  He nods at her beer.  “Any of those left?” he asks, trying for nonchalance.  Clarke nods and steps aside so he can open the fridge.  “The suit—there was a faculty meeting on campus today.”

 

“I didn’t know you were considered faculty.”

 

He grimaces around the fizz of the cold beer. “I’m not.  But since I teach some, I’m supposed to go.  And I wanna be a professor, so.  It’s good for me to get used to.”  He shrugs.  He looks good doing that in that jacket. 

 

Clarke takes another swig of her own beer, because she’s still only barely buzzed and it’s not nearly enough.  “That’s good,” she chirps.  “I’ve been a useless slug all day.”

 

He scoffs, eyes cutting to her rack and then away.  Clarke might have missed it, if they both weren’t so shitty at pretending they don’t look at each other.  “You’re not a slug,” he says, half under his breath. 

 

“Well, I guess I would have shriveled up in the sun if I really were one.  But it was a good meeting?”

 

“I guess.  I just listened.  There’s some sort of political strife going on between the French and Spanish professors.  I haven’t figured out over what yet, though.”  He shrugs out of his jacket and hangs it over the back of a kitchen chair.  Under his dress shirt, she sees the outline of his tank and the curve of his deltoids and pectorals. 

 

He’s saying something else, but she barely registers it.  She’s thinking about how warm his skin must be right now, how firm his muscles always feel when she uses close proximity or friendly hugs as an excuse to touch him.  How he always gives her this small, secret smile whenever she does, and how it makes her stomach flip, like it’s doing right now.

 

The kitchen is quiet when she pulls her eyes back to his face.  He’s staring at her too, eyes heavy and dark, his full beer held loosely at his side in one hand, the other resting on top of his jacket.  Clarke’s throat has gone dry.  Her breasts feel heavy and tight, and it’s not from the air conditioning.

 

“What if I scrapped my rule?” Her voice is steadier than she thought it would be.

 

His eyes flicker.  “Your six-month rule?”  She nods.  “You’re almost there.  You only have two more months to go.”

 

“I don’t want to wait.”

 

“People make rules like that for a reason.”

 

“I’m tired of waiting for you,” she says.  His eyelids flutter and _god_ she wants to kiss them.  “I want you.  I’ll want you tomorrow.  I’ll want you next month.  Next year.  It’s not going to change.”

 

The steps Bellamy takes towards her are slow, measured, until he’s in her space and crowding her back into the edge of the counter.  She keeps his gaze until he lifts his hands to cup her face and stroke his thumbs along her cheeks.  Her eyes flutter closed then, and the press of his forehead to hers is a surprise.  She feels him breathe her name as much as she hears it, warm and damp and feathering across her mouth, and he’s so _close_ to her, and she can _touch_ him now if she wants—

 

She drags her palm down his chest, his buttons snapping dully against the heel of her palm, and her breath catches as a hiccup when she shudders with the force of wanting him.  He sucks in a breath, too, and finally kisses her.  It’s close-lipped and dry, but lingering, like he can’t pull back now that he’s _here_.  It’s a kiss that begs to be licked into, urged on, and so Clarke does just that.  He opens his mouth wide to her, meets her tongue with his own, and his fingertips skim up the line of Clarke’s spine so she arches against him and wraps her arms around his shoulders. 

 

She was right: he’s warm and smells damp from wool-and-summer sweat.  It’s a cloying heat like the one she’d escaped from, but different too, because she wants to be pressed down by this life-giving warmth, wrapped up in it.

 

Their tentativeness melts away once they get over the wonder of their first kiss.  Bellamy’s hair feels good between her fingers when she fists it, and his own hands pull and tug at her shoulders, her hips, her ribs like the full-body press of her still isn’t close enough.  She loves it though, gasps and whispers encouragement into his mouth each time he kneads at her flesh.  He shoves fingers under the edge of her bikini bottoms to grab at her flank and squeeze hard and sweet and she can’t help the way her neck goes limp and rolls back on her neck at the primal fucking feel of it.

 

He grabs a breast with his other hand, husking, “Oh shit, Clarke, babe,” the second he feels the weight and movement of it.  She hums in agreement and gets herself together so she can look down and help him pull the triangles of her aside.  It’s borderline obscene, the sight of her heaving chest and the way the black bikini fabric frames out the gradients of pink, white, and gold of her breasts for Bellamy’s eyes.  “Jesus,” he breathes, tracing the puckered pink areolae with his thumbs.

 

She threads a hand through his hair again and presses down.  “Suck on them, Bell.” Her voice is tight, pushy, because she’s daydreamed about this a little too much lately.  He’s not hard to convince and the first pulls of his mouth on her nipple are warm and wet and strong and he looks _so_ good crouched down, his head turned so she can see where his lips suck at her skin.  “God, yes, like that,” she sighs, setting her thumb into the hollow of his cheek to feel him work her over.  The eye he rolls up to her is hot and wide-pupiled in the afternoon sunlight.

 

When he resurfaces to kiss her again, she wraps her arms around his waist to pull his hard dick up against her belly.  “Do you have time to fuck me?” she asks, laughing a bit at how ridiculous it sounds, but he’s laughing with her.

 

“Yes, my schedule is wide open,” he assures her, nibbling at her chin while he tugs at the ties to her top.

 

“Just like me,” she grins.  She hitches her knee up around his hip and rocks into him.

 

“You make the worst jokes, Clarke.”  He tosses her top away and sends his palms in wide sweeps around her ribs to cover her breasts and press them upwards.  It undoes him a little bit, because he groans and shakes his head before grabbing her hand and pulling her through the house and into his bedroom.

 

She’s been eyeing his belt buckle since he walked into the kitchen, so she grabs at it now.  He laughs into her mouth when she just holds it in her fist for a minute and busies himself with cupping her breasts and stroking her waist while she works it open and gets started on his pants.  She loves the way his eyes flicker across her chest, so she shakes her hair back over her shoulders to give him a better view.

 

He shakes his head.  “You’re so hot.”  He cups her jaw and presses her chin up, just a bit, just because he can, just to see how she looks like that.  It’s convenient timing, too, because she’s worming her hand under his boxers and gets his dick in her hand just as she turns her head and sets her teeth into the pad of his thumb.  His mouth drops open a bit and for a long moment he just rocks his hips into her fist and watches her tongue and lips play with the geography of his thumb.  He presses it past her lips and onto her tongue and groans when she gives him a big smile around it.  “You having fun, babe?”

 

Clarke bites down, gentle, and nods.  “I want it to be good,” she replies when she lets him take his hand back from her mouth.  It’s less a wish than a state of mind; this isn’t a one-night stand after all, and she wants to lay good groundwork for the future. 

 

Bellamy helps her shove his pants down over his hips and toes off his shoes, watching her hand jerk him off lazily.  “Unless we break a bone somewhere along the line,” he assures her, working his way out of his shirts, “it’s gonna be good.”

 

He’s right. It’s _so_ fucking good. He spreads her out on his bed to nibble and lick his way from her wrists to her neck to her knees and back up to where she spreads her knees and pulls his head. He takes his time here, too, being deliberate and precise in all the right ways, until she’s shuddering so close to her edge that her teeth practically chatter. He sinks a finger in deep, sucks on her clit, and she flies over, back bowing up against his bracing arm.

 

When she can move again, she takes the condom wrapper from his hand, fixes him up while he fists his hands in her hair and kisses her. The two of them can’t stop snickering, first at Clarke fudging her tear of the wrapper, and then at Bellamy’s knees trembling when she strokes down between his thighs. “C’mere,” he grunts, hauling her to the edge of the bed, and she goes to her back with a squeak, then a grin when he hikes her knee up to his narrow waist.

 

She reaches a hand out and drags her nails lightly down his belly, moans at the flex of his abdominals and the press of his dick into her. He doesn’t wait, and she sort of loves him for it, just grabs her tight and gets to work. He look dark and serious like this, save for the wink he gives her when he catches her watching him, and she is very much into how his curls are already tightening up with sweat at his temples. He must like this, because he can’t stop looking at how her tits roll up her chest every time he rolls his hips forward.

 

She lets him watch for a few minutes, happy to arch her back and throw her arms up over her head if it makes him curse like that, grab her hips like that. He slows down, pins their hips to the mattress, and leans down to lick and suck at her breasts. He hits a ticklish spot and she curls up on to an elbow, cuffing a palm around his neck and pulling him to kiss her, and he starts moving again. He’s getting close, she can tell, because his eyes start going a bit unfocused, dropping to her gasping mouth and her swaying breasts. She murmurs encouragements, tells him to stay deep in her, to let her feel him come in her. Bellamy laughs, sounding half-strangled, but he’s coming all the same, collapsing onto Clarke, who collapses onto the bed.

 

A few minutes later, under the fluorescent glow of his bathroom lights, Clarke flushes the toilet and nudges Bellamy to the side with her hip. She takes in the sight of the both of them in his builder’s basic mirror, naked and still a bit damp with sweat. Bellamy rinses his hands while she lathers up, and she doesn’t hide her ogling of his lean, naked torso. She can see his dick here, too, soft again. He’s a hell of grower, god bless him. She drags her eyes back up and catches his eyes in the mirror. He’s hiding his tiny grin, biting down on the inside of his cheek, so shimmies until her breasts sway, evening the playing field.

 

“You’re a menace,” he says to her reflection. 

 

“I always have been,” she reminds him. Bellamy chuckles and dries his hands on his hanging towel. “Go hydrate,” she calls after him. “I want blow you before Raven gets home.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just the epilogue left, my friends!

**Author's Note:**

> Chat with me about #feelz on my [tumblr!](http://alienor-woods.tumblr.com/)


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